Sarah Says Things: My New Year’s Resolutions (Already Going Well, Thanks for Asking)

It’s January 2, which means we’ve officially reached that magical time of year when half the population is still insisting they’re “starting strong,” and the other half is quietly shoving their abandoned resolutions into the same drawer where expired coupons and unmatched socks go to die.

Guess which category I’m in.

Every year I make the same mistake: I step into January like a delusional Victorian child dreaming about a better life, convinced that this will be the year I transform myself through sheer force of will. New year, new me. New habits. New discipline. New level of emotional maturity. I’m basically a self-help book with legs.

And then January 2 hits.

Let’s review how my resolutions are going so far:

Resolution #1: Drink more water.
Great idea in theory, until I realized that “drinking more water” means actually remembering to drink it. I filled a beautiful new water bottle yesterday. It is currently full. Completely untouched. Sitting on the counter like a $38 piece of performance art titled “Hydration Is a Lie.”

Resolution #2: Eat better.
I started strong by eating a piece of fruit. It was dried fruit. From the remains of a charcuterie board. But still. Fruit.

Resolution #3: Be more patient.
I was patient for an entire nine minutes until someone asked me where the milk was, which—shockingly—was in the refrigerator, exactly where it always is, exactly where it will always be, until the end of time. My spiritual growth journey continues.

Resolution #4: Declutter the house.
Technically I am decluttering. I moved three holiday items from one counter to a different counter. That’s called “visual flow,” thank you very much.

Resolution #5: Spend less time on my phone.
I absolutely crushed this one. I set a limit on my screen time. And then I immediately ignored it because I am not going to let an app boss me around in my own house.

The truth is, New Year’s resolutions are basically adult Santa letters. Full of hopes. Full of dreams. Full of promises we absolutely cannot keep.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t try—I’m just saying maybe we could all calm down with the pressure to reinvent ourselves overnight when most of us are still pulling tinsel out of the carpet.

If you’re already off the rails two days into the year, congratulations. You’re a normal human adult doing your best in a world where half the population apparently wakes up at 4 a.m. to drink lemon water and journal, and the rest of us are reheating coffee for the third time and hoping the day goes easy on us.

Here’s my official stance for 2026:
If the resolution wasn’t working for you anyway—ditch it. Today. Right now. Release it into the universe like a little dove of freedom.

You can always “start fresh” on March 4. Or June 12. Or the second Tuesday in September. Time is fake. Calendars are suggestions. Self-improvement is not a group project.

So cheers to another year of us trying, failing, laughing about it, and then trying again in whatever chaotic, half-hearted, deeply human way we do best.

Happy January 2. The real new year starts tomorrow.

Sarah Says Things: Post-Holiday Debrief (From an Exhausted Parent)

Christmas is over, which means I’ve entered that feral, slightly delirious phase where I’m equal parts grateful, exhausted, and concerned that my family may never recover from the emotional trauma of assembling gingerbread houses. I love my children, but if anyone suggests a “fun family activity” that involves frosting, sprinkles, or “teamwork,” I’m calling a lawyer.

Let’s start with the aftermath. Have you ever walked into your living room the day after Christmas and thought, “Did the North Pole explode in here?” Because that’s the only explanation for the debris field I’m currently navigating. Wrapping paper in places I didn’t know wrapping paper could go. A pile of gift bags I’m morally obligated to save for the next eight years. A rogue Lego that’s definitely lying in wait to injure me sometime between now and Easter.

I’ve been living on a diet of Christmas cookies, leftover cheese boards, and whatever half-eaten items my kids abandoned after three bites. At this point, I’m convinced my body composition is 40% frosting and 60% warm cheese cubes and regret. Nobody warns you that the real December workout plan is walking from room to room cleaning up snacks.

Also, can someone explain why children lose all concept of reality between December 26th and January 2nd? Time becomes an abstract concept. Bedtimes? Negotiable. Parental boundaries? Optional. They move through the house with the erratic confidence of tiny people who know Santa has already delivered and therefore consequences are merely theoretical.

And then—THEN—you’re expected to transition back to normal life. Work. Schedules. Routines. The audacity. Who came up with this? Who decided the correct order of operations was “complete chaos” followed immediately by “please be productive and emotionally stable again”?

I, for one, am entering January with the same energy as a Target cart with one broken wheel.

But here’s the thing about being a parent: we survive. Heroically. Questionably. Often with caffeine. We show up to life—even when we’re surrounded by 400 pieces of toy packaging, even when winter break threatens to break us, even when we’re still scraping dried frosting off the dining table.

So if your house looks like mine—equal parts festive and apocalyptic—just know you are absolutely not alone. We did it. We made it. And in 11 short months, we get to do it all again.

Lucky us.

Sarah Says Things: The Wrapping Paper Nightmare

Every December I convince myself—again—that this is the year I’ll wrap gifts like a competent, Pinterest-adjacent adult. You know the vibe: crisp kraft paper, perfectly tied twine, a sprig of evergreen tucked in at a whimsical angle, maybe a tasteful tag done in my “natural handwriting,” which of course looks nothing like my real handwriting.

And every December, the wrapping process reminds me who I actually am: someone sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paper scraps, tape stuck to my socks, and a dull sense of betrayal that YouTube tutorials lie.

Let’s start with the scissors—the single most important tool, and the first thing to vanish the moment you need them. They were right there. You just had them. And now? Gone. Replaced by a backup pair that can’t cut warm butter, much less a straight line through thick paper.

Then there’s the wrapping paper itself. I always think I have “plenty,” but somehow every roll is either (a) down to its final 11 inches, (b) creased beyond repair, or (c) a pattern I must have liked in a moment of seasonal delusion. And why—WHY—is no standard gift ever the same width as the remaining paper?

Enter the glitter paper, which looks beautiful on the shelf and then immediately attempts to exfoliate your entire home. You try to cut it and the scissors respond with a firm “absolutely not.” You try to tape it and the tape says, “Yeah, no.” And afterward you find glitter in your hair, on your dog, and somehow inside your purse.

Twine and kraft paper are supposed to be the “simple” option. Rustic, minimal, charming. Except twine is basically the holiday version of headphone cords—it tangles instantly, forms a knot with no visible beginning or end, and mocks you while you try to look effortless. And kraft paper? Gorgeous. Until you discover it’s the least forgiving material on Earth. One wrong fold and now it looks like you wrapped a gift using a brown grocery bag in the dark.

Let’s also acknowledge the tag situation. Every house contains exactly 237 leftover tags from past years, and none of them match. Some are shaped like mittens. Some say “To: Grandma” even if Grandma has been gone for a decade. Others look like they belong on a very fancy gift you are not giving. And yet, you use them anyway.

And of course, there’s the inevitable tape crisis. Halfway through wrapping the most awkwardly shaped gift in the universe, the dispenser runs out. Now you’re rummaging through drawers like a raccoon, praying for a fresh roll that isn’t the cursed off-brand kind that tears diagonally for sport.

By the end, you’re sweaty, questioning life choices, and sitting next to a pile of wrapped presents that somehow look both overworked and underperforming. The corners poke out. The seams don’t line up. One of them has a suspicious bump you swore you smoothed. Another gift looks like it lost a fight with a toddler.

But you know what? It’s wrapped. It’s done. And it’s absolutely going under the tree like that.

Perfection is for magazines. I’m just trying to make sure the tape sticks.